Shivelight: shafts of light in the forest

Behind the Yellow Door: Just Enough (pt 4)

My grandmother ate a lot of lettuce one day. After four trips to the bathroom, she told me “sometimes too much lettuce is too much lettuce”. She rarely had too much of anything after that.

Just enough lipstick, just enough rice, just enough, just enough.

I figured that the journey to murder the man who ruined my life required only a credit card and my cell phone. No one wants any form of indigestion when they commit a crime. Just enough.

Without another thought, I left my dishes in their suds, left my comfort, and snatched up just enough, and left.

The first step seemed a logical one.

Call him.

I still had his number in my phone (cause I’m not petty like that). Standing in front of the yellow door, I called that illegitimate child, and to my surprise, he answered.

“This is Mike. Who is this?”

That son of a gun deleted my FREAKING NUMBER? What kind of heartless—but wait . . . I’m an actress. This is what I do. This is what I live for.

I adopted an Irish accent I picked up playing Rose Mundy in Dancing at Lughnasa and raised my voice half an octave. “My name’s Keeva Murchadha, I’m call—”

“Del?”

What in the friggin’-whirling-dervish?

“Hi-i-i-i, Michael,” I said. Pathetic.

“What’s up?”

After all this, that’s it? That’s what he says? “I was wondering what you’re up to,” I said.

He cleared his throat. “This isn’t a good idea. I’m busy.”

“I’d at least like to see you perform if you’re in town,” I said, forcing a laugh.

After a long pause, he said, “I’m at the Clarkson Theatre doing Rent.”

“Let me guess. You’re Angel.”

He laughed. Oh, that laugh. Why was he making me do this to him? It was a matter of honor at this point. I had to kill him, whether I wanted to or not.

“Yeah. You got it. Hey, I’d . . . I’d like to see you afterward if you come.”

“Nah. My belly might make you gay again.”

“You never took care of that?”

Yeah, punk, I’m taking care of it. Taking care of it right here in my pelvis. “Not the way you suggested.”

“I respect that.”

I rolled my eyes as soundly as possible without losing them inside my skull. “When’s the next show?”

“Tonight. They’re not sold out, so if you hurry . . .”

“I’ll be there to watch you drum Benny’s dog to death.”

He laughed nervously. “O-okay.”

I took a cab to Clarkson Theatre and bought my ticket. All amped for murder, I realized I wasn’t ready, and I had time to kill. This led me to another realization: I hadn’t decided how to do it.

I remembered how the Phantom of the Opera crashed Don Juan Triumphant and attempted to seduce the lovely Christine as Don Juan. After a thought like that, I was past the point of no return. Resigned to prison for murder, I may as well do it after the best performance of my life. Just enough to make up for the loss.